Oblivion
by MaxTech256
Summary: Six years before Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark will transform a nation, one young man from District 10 will face his own trials in the 68th Hunger Games - and forge a legacy of blood, anger, and unfulfilled justice of his own. Follow in the steps of Lee Early as he confronts the Games - and the devil within himself.
1. From Dust

_**You know the greatest heroes of the Hunger Games – Katniss, Peeta, Finnick, and more. What about the others, however – the tributes and victors who fought, died, and scored the pain of victory in the Games before the rebellion? Six years before Katniss Everdeen spoke to Peeta Mellark – six years before she was tossed into the games – a young man from District 10 would carve the beginnings of his own destiny – one to change the very picture of Panem.**_

_**He will be met not with providence, but with blood.**_

* * *

**District 10**

**Year of the 68****th**** Hunger Games**

* * *

Summer's hot here in District 10.

It's impossible to avoid the beating heat of the sun on the parched landscape; to escape the cracked, dry ground of the district's town square. Even the swaying grasses of the surrounding prairie aren't enough to make one forget about the heat – the sun overhead its own form of Peacekeeper, constantly keeping watch on you no matter where you go.

Not like that's the _only_ Peacekeeper in District 10, however. We have plenty more of the human variety; the type I wouldn't mind pitching_ into_ the sun.

The Peacekeepers are even worse on a day like today – Reaping Day; the selection of two unfortunate kids like me to battle to the death in the 68th Hunger Games. And death it will almost certainly be – here in District 10, we seldom have winners.

But the Reaping isn't until high noon. Now, at 7 a.m. in the morning, I'm still trying to get back to sleep in my spartan bedroom as my dad bangs on my door.

"Lee," he grunts, his voice telling of his own sleepiness. "Go wake Killeen up. I have to go to the barns until noon."

I moan out a disgruntled response and roll out of bed, landing with a thud on the creaky wooden floor of my room. Certainly not a good way to start Reaping Day…not at all.

My father works as a ranch hand for the few wealthy landowners in District 10 – those who have been elected by the Capitol to keep control over our district's herds of livestock. While my family's not them, we're still better off than most people here. Those who work in the dairy plants or the breeding barns – or even worse, the slaughterhouses and meatpacking factories – live hellish lives. Ironically, they make up the majority of the district; no District 1 or 2 are we.

I stumble out of my bedroom, pausing just long enough to get a look in the dirty, cracked mirror on my wall. Hostile brown, almost black, eyes stare back at me from deep-set sockets; short-cropped brown hair on my square-jawed head gives me the appearance of an angry beast. That's not entirely a bad description, given the Peacekeepers I can already hear marching up and down the street in their pristine white uniforms. Wonderful. They'll probably tax us for the cleaning after the dust settles in.

I cough a lung full of dust up myself, hacking a glob of black mucus into my hand as I slam my palm into my cousin Killeen's door.

"Wake up," I bray in the loudest voice I can muster at this godforsaken hour. "Do it."

Killeen responds with an unkind answer, but I don't mind. She's one of my last living family members left: Naturally my grandparents are dead, given District 10's relatively short average lifespan. My mother and little sister were killed in a barn fire years ago; Killeen's parents, my uncle and aunt, were killed by a stampede. We should consider ourselves lucky, considering the propensity for bad luck that seems to love our rapidly-shrinking family. Now, the three of us living under one beaten-down wooden hovel's roof make do.

Since we don't have running water, I stumble into the gadfly-infested closet we call a bathroom and fill a large wooden barrel with water from a hand-pump. It'll be cold, but it's the only means I have of looking presentable. Five minutes of soaking myself with bone-chilling water later, I quickly dry off with my dirty old brown shirt and toss the clothing aside. I'll put it back on when the Reaping's over – hopefully it'll be dry by then. It's not like we can afford towels, even with the income my father's ranch hand occupation brings in.

Hell, half of the slaughterhouse workers use the district's roaming stray dogs as towels. Whatever works…

A knock on the front door drags me from my thoughts. _The hell is trying to come in now?_

I throw my brown shirt – sopping and all – back over my head and scramble for the door. I nearly trip over an old wooden chair in our poor excuse for a living room (and dining room, and greeting room, and kitchen…) and manage to stub my toe on a pot of stewed street rat in my voyage to the front door. I'm not having a great start to my day, and when I see just who has come to pay a visit, I'm even more incensed.

"Saw your dad leave," a squat, round male face appraises me, licking his lips as he speaks. "Mind if I come in?"

"Yes," I grunt. "It's early."

"Nice," the boy comments, ignoring me and stepping over the threshold.

Houston, the boy who has just made himself at home in _my_ home, is my "best friend." He's really my _only_ friend, as I'm not exactly a sociable person; my angry demeanor tends to ward off most other seventeen year-olds in District 10. Houston's family is far, far poorer than mine – his mother is a drunk; his older sister is a prostitute at the young age of nineteen, and his father makes a scant living as a dairy worker. It's thus remarkable that he's one of the smartest people in the district – and completely unsurprising that, like me, he gets along with very few others.

Besides that, Houston and I are nearly polar opposites. He's highly intelligent, with a brain that could probably take down the Capitol. He's also ridiculously thin and malnourished, with a frame that would probably last ten seconds in the Hunger Games. His sandy blonde hair camouflages him into the dust of District 10 – but with few prospects in this backwater, his prodigious brainpower will probably go to waste.

Me? I'm kind of a simpleton – Killeen likes to call me "selfish." I'm stocky enough to hold my own, but I'm not exactly that bright. I just make sure people stay out of my way – and I stay out of theirs.

"Killeen up?" Houston asks, his gray eyes wide and lusting.

"No," I mutter, keenly aware of his interest in my cousin. "You're not getting with her. Especially not on Reaping Day."

"Damn shame," he comments. "You know, I'm willing to believe there's a connection between attractive women and intelligent men…"

"Why are you even here?" I cut him off. "We have…five? Hours until the Reaping. Go do something productive."

"Not a lot of that happening," he frets. "Mom's sleeping with Ajax."

I wince. Ajax is a monster of a man – our Head Peacekeeper in District 10, the type of person I wouldn't dare mess with.

"Alright, reasonable," I acquiesce. "We don't really have much, 'cept for the rat leftovers…big'uns; caught 'em myself two nights ago. One was the size of a small dog."

"They're gonna eat us all one day," Houston laughs wryly. "Alright, I'll eat it. Do my part for the district's sanitation."

"I gotta go change," I mutter. "Look good for the Capitol and whatnot…"

"Ah, yes!" Houston laughs as I turn my back. "Happy Death Games!"

I ignore his sarcasm, slinking back to my room and tearing off my wet shirt. In its place goes a button-down of synthetic crimson – about the best someone like me can do here in District 10. It was my uncle's some time ago, and remarkably, it's survived to this day. I throw on a pair of brown pants (perfect to match the dust everywhere!) before running a hand through my short brown hair. It won't do anything to make it nicer, but hell. Why not.

Killeen's moseyed out of bed by the time I get back downstairs – and already has changed into a lavender blouse and boring powder blue skirt. She's doing her best to ignore Houston's pathetic attempts at conversation, and I give her just the diversion she needs.

"You look terrible, Lee," she remarks.

"You look horrific every day," I retort, as if that were a commonly-known fact.

In truth, my fifteen year-old cousin's quite attractive; there's a reason Houston thinks she's attractive. Her brown hair and brown eyes match in ways mine never could; her high cheek bones and short chin lacks all the carnal aggression of my rough face. I have no problem making fun of her, however – it's not like I have a sister any more, after all. Killeen's all that's left.

"Is he coming with us?" she groans and nods towards Houston, whose eyes are fixated on her hair. "He's creepy."

"You two make quite a pair, then," I continue. "I foresee many ugly babies."

"Ohhhh," Houston licks his lips. "Physical appearance is only one part of the equation."

"You would know," Killeen appraises him with something between apathy and loathing.

I ignore the two, taking a look out the lone, dirty window in our house. Two Peacekeepers strut down our dusty street, their faces shining with sweat despite their over-exaggerated gait. _District 2 scum…_it's no secret here that most Peacekeepers come from the Capitol's box of guinea pigs. "District 2" might as well be a curse word.

"Look at them," I snarl to no one in particular. "So full of themselves; waltzing down the streets like they own the place. How many d'you think the Capitol shipped in just last night?"

"Probably about 1,000," Houston smartly answers. "Given how large our district is…"

"That was rhetorical," I growl in response. "Peacekeepers. Psh. Great job keeping the peace."

"Can't argue they do a good job," Houston shrugs. "Ya know…kill some dissidents, keep the peace…all in a day's work; before screwing my mother, that is."

Killeen huffs and crosses her arms, but I snicker. Houston's self-deprecating humor is part of what made me like him in the first place. Too many kids my age in District 10 act like the world's better than it is. They don't even bother to open their eyes to the dump we live in.

Sometimes, the Hunger Games almost seem like an escape from this melancholy life.

Four hours later, it's time – the Reaping. I grab Killeen, and Houston follows after us into the dusty streets. Peacekeepers aren't the only people wandering about now: Hundreds of other children flood the brown, soot-covered avenues. District 10 is a large district, and only us kids will fit into the town square before the Justice Hall. Everyone else – including my father – will spread out on the side streets, watching from the television screens already erected on buildings for this very purpose.

I can see other things from here – cameras sending footage to the Capitol; Peacekeeper snipers sitting on rooftops. Such pleasantries for a fun little game of death.

"If we were smart," Houston comments, pulling me away from my angry thoughts. "We'd set up a betting pool. 10:1 an eighteen year-old is picked, maybe…15:1 it's a seventeen year-old, like us? Make some real money from the ranchers who have cash to blow."

"That shit already happens," I reply, keeping an arm on Killeen's shoulder as she tries to shrug me off. "Peacekeepers have generally ignored it. Supposedly, nobody really wins – even the bookies."

"Shame," Houston whistles. "We need some real entrepreneurs around here."

"Like you would do it," Killeen mutters.

"Of course," Houston smiles, missing her intent. "I'm more than happy to endorse the free market."

I don't know why I let these two ever get together: Between Houston's lusting for my cousin and Killeen's generally bitter attitude, it's a recipe for disaster. Sometimes I confuse them for siblings.

The town square comes upon us all too soon. The storefronts and multi-story governmental buildings creep up out of the dust like stone behemoths, so out of place around the run-down wooden buildings of District 10. Killeen blatantly cuts a hundred girls in line, wincing as the Capitol attendance-taker jabs her finger for a blood sample. I fret inside: As much as I like to make fun of her, I sure as hell don't want the Capitol touching my cousin.

I won't let her end up like Houston's mother, by any chance.

The line moves quickly, and Houston and I file into the expansive section for seventeen year-old males. Our section is actually one of the smallest amongst all the kids, for a simple reason: Seventeen year-olds have had more chances to die in District 10 than twelve year-olds. Some are more than happy to add to that statistic, whether falling from diseases like tuberculosis to being run over by an angry steer to being shot by an unhinged Peacekeeper. There's always a myriad of ways to end your life here in Panem's southernmost district.

"Oh, _look_," Houston exclaims in a faked Capitol accent as our district's escort, Horme, takes the stage. "I can't _bloody wait_ for the fashion tips! Tally ho!"

I roll my eyes at his terrible impersonation, but Horme is _bad_. Even at the helm of a forgettable district like 10, he trumps himself up with a metric ton of self-importance – even more than his flamboyant costume implies. Strangely, he considers District 10 to be at the top of its game: Despite our relatively poor record in the Games, Horme consistently tells us that he'd rather be nowhere else. I'm inclined to believe it; the eccentric, green-haired man's ego won't let him believe he's been relegated to a backwater.

His dress is even worse this year: He's adorned in a skin-tight, striped suit of violet and gold that makes him look like a stylistic abortion. His fat, plastic face is all too pale in a district where most of us are heavily tanned from the sun.

"Ahhh, District 10," Horme greets us with tenor syllables of pain. Houston perfectly quotes his next words as he says them: "How I would rather be _nowhere else! Happy Hunger Games!_"

"Oh! May the odds be ever in our favor?" Houston sarcastically asks, right before Horme wishes us that very same fate.

"Some Peacekeeper is gonna come over here and shoot you," I grin. At least Houston's entertaining on a day where most kids are positively shitting themselves. He's got little to lose, after all.

District 10's two surviving victors look like they'd rather be anywhere _but_ here. To the right of Horme and our mayor, the elderly Mayor Beaumont, sits a man in his early forties, already bald and with droopy blue eyes. He's easy to recognize – Plano Kilgore, the winner of the 44th Hunger Games. He's seen better days; his waistline has grown a little too recognizable since he won using his raw footspeed to evade and launch hit-and-run attacks on enemy tributes. Nowadays, Plano finds ways to amuse himself by sniping street rats from his roof with rocks. I've seen him in action: For a guy who's lost some of his fitness, he's a darn good pitcher.

On the other side of the podium, puffing away on a massive cigar, sits District 10's other – and most recent – victor, Odessa Antonio. The winner of the 59th Hunger Games looks absolutely bored, fingering her dirty-blonde hair as she dusts ashes of her tobacco stick onto the stage. Odessa's never been much of a socialite; she won the Games on her own, luring other tributes into traps and murdering them without a second thought. She's still hostile to most people – but undoubtedly smart.

I figure she and Houston would get along great.

Horme leads us through the typical boring Capitol video – I can see Killeen nearly asleep from here - and eventually proceeds to the Reaping itself. I'm having trouble paying attention by this point: To be honest, watching the typical "One young man and woman…to _represent their districts in a game of honor!_" hasn't resonated with me since…ever. The Capitol's pandering won't get to me.

"Girls first!" Horme giggles – yes, _giggles_. I hate this man. "Should I say…_ladies_."

_No, you meant to say minions!_ I think as he sticks his pudgy hand into the girls' reaping bowl like he's gutting a fish. Horme rips a paper slip out of the bowl, and for the first time, I reflect on how many of those I have in _our_ bowl today. Seventeen…that means six standard, three every year for tesserae, just like what Killeen does…shit. Twenty-four slips. Guess that's why I don't pay much attention to that number.

"Flores Lufkin!" Horme drags me away from my boredom as he announces our female tribute.

I have no idea who Flores is. The thirteen year-old, blonde-haired girl nervously making her way towards the stage gives away everything immediately: She's cannon-fodder. Little Flores, who's thin beyond comprehension and looks as if she's ready to pass out from fear, won't last more than a minute in the arena. Don't hope for company from her, Odessa and Plano.

Flores stumbles up to the stage, half-dragged up the stone steps by Horme. Our escort is all-too-eager to keep going, however – he lets out a hearty "Let's give our female tribute a big hand!" as we all regard him in stony silence. _Capitol twit_.

Horme leaves the terrified young girl to her thoughts as he wanders over to the male bowl. It just hits me that I never even considered Killeen's odds: I'd just figured she'd never be Reaped. With little Flores up there trembling like a young tree in the wind, it hits me that I haven't shown my cousin enough respect. It could just as easily be her stumbling out of the fifteen year-olds section, cautiously walking to the stage and headed for certain death. As much faith as I have in Killeen, she likely wouldn't last more than two days against the Careers.

How nice the Capitol is. Has the human race always been this violent?

I just begin to realize that _I, too_, could be headed for such a similar fate at any time as Horme drags a slip out of the male bowl, likely leaving a slimy handprint behind. He opens up the slip as I send a glance towards Houston: With my concern for Killeen, I realize that my only real friend in District 10 could just as easily be headed for a killing field he has no chance in.

Fortunately, Houston isn't selected.

"Our male tribute!" Horme announces with a bright smile. I catch a glimpse of Odessa rolling her eyes and mouthing off to the escort before he tells us all who's up to bat: "Lee Early!"

Hell.

Hell – that's not just my reaction to his selection of my name. That's where I'm headed. Summer's hot in District 10…but Hell's hotter, and I'm going right past the fiery gates.

* * *

**Author's Note: It's the 68****th**** Hunger Games, and you're invited! This is the story of District 10's male tribute, Lee Early – and the trials he'll have to face as President Snow demands more and more from the Games, with the Capitol eager for blood. Outside of District 10 for the first time in his life, Lee will get a hands-on view of just the monster the Capitol is – as he tries desperately not to fall for the monster within himself.**

**I've taken a few creative liberties; some won't become noticeable until later in the storyline. Finnick, Snow, Plutarch, Haymitch, Cashmere, Gloss, Panem, the Hunger Games, and other associated people/places/events are properties of Suzanne Collins. Original works are mine.**

**Enjoy! I always appreciate feedback/commentary/questions – don't hesitate to review!**


	2. Human No More

_**Thanks for the review, Bradykins98! Always happy to hear what I can improve upon and/or am getting right.**_

* * *

No point sticking around.

I take a heavy step into the aisle running between the girls and the guys in the town square. Cameras fixate on me as soon as they see me, their lights outshining the sun to illuminate my face. I squint reflexively, but keep the expression – the Capitol will want to see masculinity and aggression out of its male tributes, and I can serve these up in bundles.

Houston sighs behind me, but I don't look back. No: Can't look back now; can't show hesitation. My act has begun, and I can't let it down – 'til death do we part.

Horme says something on stage, but the eyes before me get my attention. Thousands of blue, brown, green, and gray irises gape at me like fish from either side, watching my concentrated, focused steps towards the stage. I try not to notice them, but I can't help it. One pair stands out more than the rest – two gray dots from the center of a worried, concerned girl's face out of the fifteen year-old section. Killeen – watching one of her last family members walking to a likely death.

Sorry.

"Come, come, come!" Horme crows like a perverted circus master from the podium, waving his fingers at me like an octopus. I immediately picture the Capitol escort covered in thick, oily purple skin and suckered tentacles. The thought considerably improves his appearance.

I stomp up the stairs, my eyes leering with anger at Horme. The escort misses my attention, seeing enthusiasm where I try to convey detest.

"What a strapping pair of tributes we have from District 10!" he says in his annoying butterfly voice, grabbing my cold hand and raising it into the air. "Let's give them a warm round of applause!"

Nobody's clapping. Most of the other kids in the audience look relieved they weren't selected, but you can see pockets of concern or anger here and there. My eyes turn back on Killeen: She hasn't moved from her section, stuck in an icy, statuesque pose as she watches me forced in front of the entire nation.

At Horme's prompt to shake hands, I'm finally confronted with the first of twenty-three other children I'll have to kill if I want to live. Up close, Flores is on the verge of collapsing. She's short; maybe five foot at best, her thick blonde hair making her look an inch or two taller than she really is. She might be ninety pounds soaking wet – clearly not one of the wealthier, better-fed children of our district. Her eyes follow my stare, looking up at my angry expression with anxiety and trepidation. Clearly, she sees something in me that I know very well: I'll be more than happy to kill her if it benefits me.

Flores might be an innocent caught in the crossfire, but I won't sacrifice myself for this little girl.

I shake her hand roughly, grabbing her palm with a tight squeeze and letting it go quickly. No reason to let her think we're any sort of allies or teammates – we're not. Never will be.

Peacekeepers urge us into the stone-walled Justice Hall behind us, but I get a last glimpse of the world around me before I enter. Odessa's looking at Flores and I with contempt: She sees no victors to join her and Plano atop this platform next year.

Perhaps she's right.

The Peacekeepers hustle me away too fast to think, forcing Flores into a room to the left before shoving me in a room to the right. Before I can take in my surroundings, they've slammed a heavy oaken door shut in my face – trapping me in my ornate prison to think about my fate. Pine wall paneling surrounds me, giving a soft brown touch to the forest green and ocean blue plush couches in the Justice Hall's guest room. Several painted pictures hang on the wall, showing scenes that I assume are to be from Panem before the rebellion seventy years ago. Frankly, this is the nicest place I've ever been in my life, but I won't enjoy it. I know it's an elaborate set-up to get me off my guard; to give Panem's audience what it wants to see: Raw emotion. They won't have it from me.

I'm only waiting about five minutes before my first guest makes their way through the Peacekeeper barricade and into my room. It's Houston – who else.

"Bit of bad luck there," he gives me a wry grin as he lets the door slam behind him, following the Peacekeeper's customary warning of a three-minute time limit. "You, uh…doin' okay?"

"Don't get sentimental," I snap. "Last thing I need is cameras up in my face and people thinking I'm some sort of softie."

Houston laughs. Even in the face of my imminent death, he hasn't lost his touch: "I see you're already setting up the act for the Capitol and their glorious crowds. At least you have a plan. That other girl's going to be massacred. You…do have a plan, right?"

I think it over. I _don't_ really have a plan, to be honest. My rough idea is to simply kill whoever else is in the way: What else are the Games for?

"Figured I'd kill a few people," I shrug. "Probably would help my chances."

"Probably," he replies. "Look, Lee…The Careers from Districts 1 and 2 aren't really bright. I've had to think about what I'd do in the Games, given that I take tesserae every year and ain't well-built like you. Out-smart 'em. Cut them off, lead them into traps, act irregularly. Most everyone knows the tributes who are weak and cowardly, or the ones who act that way – and then there's always the brash people, either the Careers or the fakers who get slammed in ten minutes. You've got to be something different. You've got to be your own man…something that nobody else knows. Something that's only passably human, even. Only then you're gonna be able to out-think these guys who've killed their whole lives. You'll give the rich, stinking sponsors something new to think about and bet on…and you'll make it so that the other kids won't know what to do with you."

_Heh._ Houston's smarter than I give him credit for. I've never really thought about it, but he's always had as good a chance as me to go into the Games, with none of the physical advantages I have. His strategy isn't just smart, it's borderline genius with its surgical precision. Disassociate yourself from every human element – treat the other tributes like numbers, factors, hurdles – and you'll finish off the normal concerns that most tributes have. There's no worrying, no panic, if everything is a game of statistics.

If only I had that sort of logical brain. The cold anger in my heart will lead me to ruin if I let it.

Houston lifts his head up as he hears the Peacekeeper on the other side of the door – his time's up. He gives me once last glance, slaps my shoulder, and says with all manner of seriousness, "Don't try to be a symbol, Lee. Don't try to stand for anything. Just do what the Games were meant to do. That's how you win."

I give him a curt nod as the Peacekeeper forces him out. If only paying attention to the rules was that simple.

The Capitol disgusts me. They're the ones who dictate our little lives in District 10; their Peacekeepers are the ones who can gun us down at any time without as much as a warning. They're the ones who pen us in like the cattle we raise, forcing us into lifetimes of the same status quo. I don't mind the Games so much, but if I have the chance to kill one of their little suckling lapdogs from District 2, I'll not just kill the bastard. I'll enjoy it – all on live tv.

That kind of thinking is what Houston warned about, but it's that kind of pleasure that makes me crave more. I'm an instrument of violence when I let myself go, and in the Games, I have no reason to hold back. It's dangerous – and defeating – but I almost like the thought of having responsibility lifted from my shoulders.

My next visitor isn't unexpected, either – but the fact that she's alone is.

Killeen pushes past the Peacekeeper and the closing wooden door of the room, hurrying to take advantage of her entire three minutes. She rushes up to me but hesitates – unsure of whether I'm looking for love or whether she should hold back.

I relieve her of her indecision and grab her in a hug. She's my cousin, after all.

"He's not coming," she breathes, her voice cracking. "Unc – er, your dad…said he couldn't handle it."

"That's fine," I half-lie. "Don't you worry."

I should have expected that. My dad's treated me like an adult for years now, considering me as an equal ever since I became a teenager. That's fine, but I've never created much of a connection with the man. I figured that I'd just find a similar job when I reached eighteen, leaving him behind forever. Now, that "forever" might be coming just a year sooner.

"I…" Killeen starts. I've never seen her like this: She's on the verge of tears, her gray eyes welling up with the kind of sadness and anxiety I don't expect from her usual toughness. "I'm sorry…I don't really know what to say."

"Then don't say anything," I tell her, keeping a hand on her shoulder.

"I don't always mean it," she speaks up after a few moments of silence. "We make fun of each other and stuff…and I try to be tough…but I don't even have a family left after you and your dad. I'm not gonna be able to do this anymore, Lee. I can't take more of my family leaving me…leaving me alone here in this lonely district. I'm tired of losing everyone."

"Killeen," I reply, surprising myself that I'm even managing to show some actual empathy for once. "Listen to me…you can't expect me to win. You can't. Whatever happens when I leave – whether I come back or I don't – you've got to keep going. Okay? I want you to. I want you to have a good life. You're the only thing I have left as well – the only thing I even have close to a sister. Go find someone; go make something for yourself. We might not have much here, but make do with it. And don't keep thinking about me…forget about me if I die in there. I'll just keep you back."

"I won't do that," Killeen pushes away from me tearfully. "Stop thinking you're gonna die. Maybe you can win. Look at that dumb girl over there…she's tiny. She won't last at all; if they're all like that…"

"Look," I grab her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at me straight in the eye. "They won't be. There'll be guys bigger than me; girls craftier than me. Maybe I make it out, okay. Maybe I don't. That'll take care of itself. If you keep worrying about it, Killeen, you'll kill yourself with an ulcer and I'll be no better off than I am right now. I hate to sound like a sap, but I actually _do_ have hopes for you."

She can hear the frustration in my voice – the anger and bitterness creeping in through my words. Killeen gives me the faintest hint of a smile, rubbing her eyes to wring the tears out: "You don't sound like a sap. You sound like a guy with something to win for."

Now it's me who's forced to smile: "Maybe I do. Maybe I do after all."

The Peacekeeper returns all too soon. Killeen frantically grabs my hand for what could be the last time, her eyes wild: "Lee – don't just leave me! Don't just give up!"

"I won't," I watch the Peacekeeper force her from the room as I stand idly by, still as a statue. "I won't."

The door slams with a _thud_, leaving me alone again. I grab a white porcelain vase sitting on a small table nearby, hurling it into a wall with all my strength. It explodes into a thousand pieces, the white fragments shattering like a starburst that sprays across the room. I close my eyes as one scratches me along my chin – _at least I can still feel. For now._

I don't know if I'll be able to say that for long. Already, the Games are turning me monstrous – into a man ripping every last human connection from his heart.

What happens when I can't even see others as human – but beasts to be slaughtered?


End file.
